


Kalushit Prem

by CarminaVulcana



Series: Broken Unbroken [5]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Forbidden Love, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarminaVulcana/pseuds/CarminaVulcana
Summary: Bhallaladeva has an unhealthy obsession for his imprisoned brother. Is it perhaps something else? Why is he forced to wonder about his darkest desires while grieving the birth of a stillborn daughter?A big thanks to Shubhra and Arpita for exploring this chain of thought and for allowing me to explore it in greater detail in the Silences and Insanities universe.





	Kalushit Prem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arpita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arpita/gifts), [MayavanavihariniHarini](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayavanavihariniHarini/gifts).



She names our dead daughter without consulting me even once. And then she wants me to remember her name, to _say_ her name, and to grieve for her openly.

When I say no, she calls me a monster; the reason why her children are dead… the reason why my children are dead.

I shouldn’t have hit her so hard.

After all, she is still healing, still sore down there. I should have waited before taking her… but damn! That woman gets on my nerves sometimes.

And I? Like a fool, I give in to my urges each time, hoping that perhaps this time, it would be different.

But it never is.

Her soft skin is how I imagine Devasena’s would have been, but her eyes are the wrong color, her hair is curlier, and her lips are too thin for my liking.

But even then, on the better nights, I can close my eyes and pretend she is her—when I fuck her for pleasure, for satisfaction, for my need.

Where should I go on nights like this one? When I need to consume someone, when I need _to be_ consumed in someone simply to anchor myself to reality.

Certainly not my wife.

And as strange as this sounds, I do not desire Devasena either on such nights.

It is he who I hunger for.

He is nothing like them. Of course, I have no idea what it would be like to have him pinned under me. But that is not what I seek.

I seek his soul, his devotion… I wish to possess him.

Right now, I just own his body… the rest of him is still elusive to me.

My wife says his ill wishes took the lives of my children.

A part of me is tempted to scream at him for it. I want to punish him, feel his pliable flesh quiver under my blows. I want to hear his pained grunts and then his fervent apologies—that never again would he wish ill upon those I love!

But even I know it is futile. His words are meaningless to me. And no matter how much I hurt his body, his mind will think whatever it fancies. And I will never know it.

I watch him from the window of my study.

He is not asleep yet. I can faintly make out the silhouette of his form against the bars of his cage.

It is no surprise that he is still awake. Sleeping on an empty stomach is hard. It is harder still when one’s lips and throat are drier than the Thar desert in peak summer.

Besides, I have been too harsh on him lately.

What is this? Am I feeling guilty?

No, he deserves everything I do to him. He should have died along with his cursed mother. He should have died all those years ago.

Then I would have perhaps enjoyed a different life. For one, I would have had five beautiful children instead of just my dear Bhadra.

There is no one in this palace who I can talk to. Bhadra is still too young. Vaidehi means nothing to me. Katappa is a slave. Father does not understand anything other than unbridled hatred for his own long-dead brother.

There is no one to truly call my own when I need someone to hear me out and tell me everything will be okay. Sycophants are not friends. Subjects are not friends. Allies are not friends.

But long ago, before everything fell apart, I had a friend in him. I used to tell him everything. And he always gave me good advice. He even comforted me when I needed it.

Maybe… maybe if we could recreate that camaraderie just for one night, tomorrow will be a better day.

I muster up all my strength and courage to go to the kitchens. Most of the staff has left. There is only one guard.

He salutes me as I enter the pantry. There is always food in the pantry. It was a custom started by mother because Baahu and I used to steal food at night when we were just at the cusp of our teens and our growth spurt.

I am not sure where I am going with this and I don’t know how far I am willing to take this. But against my better judgment, I put enough rice on the plate for two people. And I ladle two servings of lentils into a large bowl. While I am at it, I decide to take an entire tumbler of water as well.

The few night guards who see me walking to the cage so late, are clearly surprised. But they know better than to say anything.

Most of them are horrified by the equation I share with my disgraced ~~brother~~ cousin. But they are also afraid of what I would do to them if they were to ever question it.

A small percentage of them seem to think they are like me. They derive entertainment from our—for lack of a better term—interactions. Some of them call these ‘interactions’ torture sessions. But I hate that term.

Torture is such a harsh, ugly word. It implies cruelty, irrationality, something senseless.

No… what Baahu goes through at my hands… is not torture. It is atonement.

There is a difference between the two even if both involve the use of knives and whips. To call them one and the same is absurd. Is a rainfall the same as a cloud burst just because they are both linked with water falling from the sky? Is a forest fire the same as a bonfire just because they both involve the combustion of wood?

I hold my breath as I near his cage. I know he stinks. And today, my stomach feels rather delicate. I do not wish to lose my supper. I take a full minute to slowly let out my breath and allow my nostrils to adjust to the stench of his unwashed body.

He doesn’t know I am here.

I don’t immediately reveal myself either. For a short while, I simply observe.

His hands tremble as he wraps them around his knees loosely. There are numerous little cuts on his face. There is a small amount of blood around his mouth which also stains his lightly chattering teeth.

I have not allowed him to wear a shirt all these years. He can’t be allowed to legally. A fine shiver seems to hover over the skin of his marked back. It is indeed cold out here.

I do feel some remorse for what I have done to him.

But it is not enough. I still feel like the victim here. I still feel the need to avenge my lost years, my lost sleep, and the decades of emotional torment I have lived through… only because of him and his merciless, unloving existence.

An urge to strike him roils within me. I want to throw the plate of food on the ground and shake him so hard that his teeth rattle.

But the moment of madness is gone in less than a moment.

I stare at the wounds I gave him yesterday.

His tired, unfocused eyes are at the level of my feet. Is he scared that I will kick him in the flank again?

I wish he would look up. I want him to look at me. I want him to see how much I need him… how much I have always needed him.

But like a defiant but beaten dog, he only looks down. I can practically see the gears turning in his brain. He is steeling up his fortress against my assault. He is preparing to go to that place in his mind where my switches and chains can’t cut him even as I bleed his flesh with each stroke.

“Baahu,” I disturb the uncomfortable silence between us. “I want to talk to you.”

I don’t have the strength to taunt him or insult him today.

But he doesn’t know that.

He swallows roughly before answering me.

“T…then talk.” His voice is a hoarse, raspy mess.

“Not here,” I tell him. “I want to talk in private. Let me open your cage.”

Hearing this, Baahu gives me a rather strange, half-amused, half-exasperated look. And then, he bursts out laughing.

There; I made him laugh at least. And laughing, he looks almost like his old self, the way he had looked at my coronation ceremony.

Except, no one was laughing that day.

“You can do whatever you please,” he says. There is no bite in his words, but I know he is trying to be snarky. Too bad, that’s not him. That’s me.

“You must be hungry,” I say.

His gaze travels down to the plate of food in my hand.

Ugh, I hate how dark it is. His expression is veiled by the night’s shadows and I am not sure if I saw longing on his face or if it was just my imagination.

I set the plate down and reach for the key to his cage which always hangs on my belt alongside my dagger. He says nothing as I open the lock and motion for him to come out.

A part of me wants to unfasten the chains on his arms and legs too… but I am unable to bring myself to do so.

I love him. I don’t trust him.

I hate him for everything he represents.

I loathe him for everything I have lost to him.

I detest him for making me love him as much as I do.

Why does he make me feel emasculated? I am a man, aren’t I?

Over the years, I have considered a terrible thought multiple times.

What if… what if he were to be gelded? Would that not be my ultimate victory? If I cannot have him, perhaps I can destroy him without finishing him. Or at least, I can destroy the part of him that makes my desires seem like perversion.

But I have never taken my thoughts beyond the realm of fantasy.

A pathetic hope still grows somewhere that he will be mine eventually.

I would have been happy to own him through his bitch of a wife.

But I have something better. I have _him_. And maybe, someday I will have the guts to claim him for good; body, mind, heart, and soul.

I watch as he slowly shuffles out.

It is difficult for him to walk in those leg irons. The short chains that bind his arms and hands don’t allow him to hold on to anything for support.

He deserves it. My fingers clench involuntarily as his harsh, wheezing breath catches in his throat.

I did this to him.

But he deserves it. All of it.

“Follow me,” I order him once he is finally outside the cage.

His head remains bowed, resigned to whatever he thinks I have planned for him.

I smile inwardly at the surprise I will give him tonight. He probably expects a beating or a questioning. But oh… his reaction will be priceless when I actually allow him to eat the food on that plate. I also can’t wait to see him gulp down the cool water in the tumbler.

I can’t allow him into the palace, so I choose the interrogation room for our tête-à-tête.

His feet linger outside the doorway for a moment before he visibly tenses himself and enters in.

I know he has rather unfortunate memories of this place. Only last week, he was brought here when we suspected the stirrings of another rebellion among the blacksmith community.

But today, he isn’t going to be strung up. The royal whipmaster hasn’t been called for. And I am in no mood to do anything other than talk.

I lost my daughter today.

Surely, my own brother will have something for me… anything that will make me feel better.

“Sit,” I tell him.

For a long moment, he does nothing.

“Sit,” I tell him again and gesture towards the mat laid out on the floor.

He reluctantly lowers himself onto the floor. His face contorts in pain as he folds his knees into the lotus position.

“Does it hurt a lot?” the question is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“No.” he says quietly.

Liar!

But then he has hardly been honest with me, unless I literally force the truth out from his lips.

Those lips are too chapped.

But I have only one tumbler of water. I know he will drink it all if I give it to him now. No, he must eat first.

“Here,” I push the plate of food towards him. “Eat.”

“Have you eaten?” he dares to ask me. “I… I mean no.. no offense,” he adds and again, his gaze lowers in deference to my supreme authority over him.

“I haven’t,” I respond to his question. “But I am not hungry. I want you to eat.”

I can tell he doesn’t believe me. Is there anything I can do to assure him that this is not a trick? I mean him no harm tonight.

“I know what you are thinking,” I say to him. “Your fears are unfounded. This food is freely given. It is yours to eat.”

Ah… the longing again! I see it now clearly in the firelight from the torches.

He is indeed hungry. And he is grateful for the food. He probably doesn’t even know it but a small smile has stolen its way onto his face.

However, there is shame, heartbreak, and… is that trepidation in his eyes?

I cannot tell.

But he will play it safe. He is no masochist. He doesn’t want to be hurt if he can help it.

“I cannot eat, my King,” he says. “It is improper for the likes of myself to eat if the sovereign has not eaten yet.”

The words sound all wrong in his voice. They sound fake, even.

But he is absolutely correct. Good to know he is sharp as ever.

“Today is an exception,” I say. “Besides, you are obligated to do everything I demand of you. Eat.” I don’t bother to soften my words. If he won’t eat by choice, then he will eat because that is what I expect of him.

He flinches violently at my tone. He wants to say something but he holds his tongue.

He is wise to not argue.

The absence of his thumbs makes him struggle to spoon together bits of rice and lentils.

The first bite is small, clumsy, and experimental. He does not look at anything but the plate as he finally puts it into his mouth.

I am mesmerized by the way his mouth rolls itself up, and the gentle, almost-lulling motion of his throat as the food moves down his gullet.

I don’t want to think about what I want to do to him. I picture my rough, calloused fingers on his neck—not to squeeze the life out of him as I have often threatened-- but to feel its vulnerable softness, to plant kisses all over it, and to mark it as my own.

Damn! These thoughts are out of control tonight.

No one can ever know of them. Especially not him. I wonder yet again if I would have already taken that final, sinful step if I had Devasena under my power instead of him.

I can do whatever I like to him.

But I am a man.

He is also a man… at least anatomically.

A real man does not lie with another man.

I am a real man.

I cannot lie with him.

But I do not wish to lie with women anymore either. I lay with Vaidehi. Look what that got me.

“My daughter was born dead,” I blurt out.

He stops chewing.

I scrutinize his face closely for signs of glee or triumph or satisfaction.

But I see only compassion. And remorse. And grief.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he whispers.

“Are you?” I feel so bitter. Vaidehi believes that his curses killed our daughter. How can he possibly be sorry for something he brought upon us in the first place?

“You must be happy,” I want to punch him in his face for daring to mock my pain.

He looks like he has been slapped.

“Never,” he says. “The death of a child does not please me. I truly am sorry for your loss.”

“Not even when it hurts me so much? I know how much you want me to suffer.”

I have got him. I know it. Let me see how he wriggles out of this one.

“No, Bhalla,” he shakes his head. I register the use of my old endearment. But I let it pass. Tonight, everything will be forgiven. Perhaps he knows it too. And that’s why, he goes on.

“I don’t want to see you suffer,” his words should not be so believable, but they are. “I don’t know what you will do to me for saying this. But I see no reason to lie. I don’t love you anymore. It is hard to love someone who has destroyed everything I ever held dear and sacred; including my newborn son who I didn’t even get to see. I know how sharp the hurt is—like a gaping wound that can never close no matter how many times you try to suture it together. But despite everything that has happened to me, I don’t wish it upon anyone, not even you.”

His voice is raw with naked agony.

If I were a braver man, I would gather him into my arms and comfort him.

If I were a good man, I would set him free.

But I am a coward, I realize in that moment. And I am riddled with problems.

There is nothing I can do to heal his pain.

I now also know that there is nothing he can do to heal mine.

“Finish your food,” I tell him.

“I cannot, my lord,” his tone is back to formal. “I am unaccustomed to eating so much.”

There is no accusation in his words. And as before, they are true.

“Then have some water,” I offer him the tumbler.

He looks at the water warily. I think I know what he is wondering.

“There is no crushed glass in it this time,” I assure him.

He still looks nervous. The punishment from two years ago is still fresh in his mind.

“Please, my King,” he is pleading now. “Anything but that. Anything but that.”

He never debases himself normally. But the fear of ingesting sharp, splintered glass is so strong that he is not above begging at this moment.

“I just lost my child,” I murmur. “I have seen enough for a night. I promise there is nothing in that tumbler but water.”

Even then, for several moments, he doesn’t touch it.

But finally, his thirst wins out against his reservations.

He picks up the tumbler with both hands and raises it to his lips.

The first sip makes him sigh in relief. That small, contented sound feels like ice in my stomach.

After that, it takes him no more than four large sips to empty the container.

“Better?” I ask him.

He simply nods.

“I must return you to the cage now.”

He stands up quietly and doesn’t say anything. The night guards watch us without bothering to hide their shock as the prisoner walks out unaided and unharmed from the interrogation room.

“Thank you,” I almost miss his soft words as I lock the cage.

“Pray for the souls of my dead children,” I can say nothing else in response.

By the time I slip back into my study, it is well past my wife’s bedtime.

Sleep would not come to me, I think. But I lie down nonetheless.

I replay his words again and again in my mind.

He had thanked me. He had told me he does not wish ill for me.

I allow the comforting thoughts of my younger brother’s kindness to lull me to sleep.

*****

This is it, I know.

The blood from my neck will kill me within seconds.

I must see his eyes.

His eyes.

I make a wild grab for him.

His wife… the bitch… she keeps me away from him.

But… he knows.

One last time, I need to see his eyes.

And I do.

For the second time in twenty-five long years and for the last time in my wretched life, I feel human.


End file.
